


The Only Boy I Know Who Cannot Cry

by richcreamerybutter



Category: Ghost (Sweden Band)
Genre: Childhood Trauma, Christmas, Coffee, Cute, Fluff, I can't write special without calling him phil, Implied Sexual Content, Kisses, M/M, One Shot, fake snow, pathetic, soft papa, two chapters though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:40:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28097046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/richcreamerybutter/pseuds/richcreamerybutter
Summary: It's Christmas Eve, and *someone* has forgotten to buy a gift for someone Special. A last-minute dash into the town is required, then, before Papa and Copia can relax together before the big day. Maybe with some cheese, some wine, and some cute Christmas telly.
Relationships: Cardinal Copia/Papa Emeritus III
Comments: 10
Kudos: 25





	1. It Was Christmas Eve, Babe

**Author's Note:**

> I put them through much angst in We'll Just Have to Face It This Time, and I quite fancied a go at a full-length sequel set at Christmas, but since we haven't got the time for that please accept this two-chapter one-shot pure-fluff substitute, set in a different universe.
> 
> Idea came up when I watched The Snowman last week, hence the title lifted from a song from The Snowman and the Snowdog! I've missed having full ideas from fleeting moments.
> 
> Dedicated to my cheerleader (no deaths here m'dear), my milk think tank, and my cheese fiend, who all know who they are!

It had been such a frantic few weeks that the Cardinal was happy enough to spend the afternoon alone in his room on Christmas Eve. It was a cold one. The vain hope of snow had been bandied about, but thus far, the skies had remained a steely grey and surrendered nothing. It would have been nice, perhaps, to have had a flurry to observe from his window as he read. Festive. It never snowed at Christmas, when much of the world would have had a chance to slow down and enjoy it. If it came, it was usually January, when all he wanted was the return of spring.

Yes. Winter was much more satisfying when every town and city shone with multicoloured light, and the air was thick with the aromas of toffee and mulled wine. Copia had some ready for later, in fact. Snow or no snow, a glass or two of mulled wine before bed was guaranteed to finish off his favourite day of winter perfectly. A moment of peace, by the fire, after so much rushing around and frustration.

He heard the furious words _ah, fotutto inferno_ from outside before the knock at the door came, but it still jerked him out of his reverie.

He knew immediately who it would be. No one else at the clergy had such an urgent little _rap,_ and no one else at the clergy would dare to cross his door with foul language before expecting to be allowed in. He smiled to himself: Papa had insisted that while there was no other company he would rather keep on Christmas Eve than that of a glass of port, a 'fuck-off camembert' (his words) and his beloved Cardinal, unfortunately he was too chaotic and disorganised to have any sort of free time on Christmas Eve, and would no doubt be present-wrapping until the wee small hours. While Copia had of course been disappointed, he had not been surprised that this was how Papa handled Christmas.

Even though it arrived on the same day every single year.

He opened his door to an antsy, agitated Papa: while he was in his suit and skull paint, for some reason, he seemed to have either neglected his hair completely or ruffled it up on purpose. Glaring at Copia, he thrust a package in his face.

'Phil,' he snarled.

Copia frowned. Papa appeared to think he was making sense to him, but Copia couldn't for the life of him work out where this shared knowledge was supposed to be coming from.

'What about Phil?' he said, and Papa unleashed a wild growl.

' _Fucking Phil_!' He jabbed at Copia with the parcel on each syllable. 'He just dropped this off at my door. It's Christmas _Eve_ , Copia. He has dropped this off on Christmas Eve and I have _completely_ forgotten to buy him anything …'

Copia stepped aside as Papa strode into the room, heading for the fireplace. 'Well … it is only three o' clock,' he said. 'There will be somewhere open in town, surely? I mean … it will be busy, but …'

'That's not the point,' Papa sighed. He was leaning on the mantelpiece with the arm that wasn't holding the present. 'I had everything ready this year. All of my presents are in a lovely pile in my room ready to distribute. I have had my eyebrows waxed, my hair cut, my mani, my pedi … everything. I felt fresh and relaxed and ready for festivities. For the first time in my life I had _nothing_ to do on Christmas Eve, and it was wonderful.'

He, genuinely, looked devastated, gazing down towards the fire like some film character filling in a tragic backstory.

'I wanted to surprise you,' he said. 'I told you I was busy to throw you off, then I was going to come around later tonight with your presents and a bottle of wine and … I bought a box of Baci Perugina and everything …'

His anguished flustering was making Copia's heart flutter. 'It's OK, Papa,' he said, with a smile. 'All you have to do is buy and wrap one more present, _sì?_ Then there will be time for relaxation afterwards. Don't worry.'

'I know. I just feel like an idiot. Of course I could never be ready for Christmas. I'm _me_.'

'Yes. You're you. And I wouldn't have you any other way.'

Copia walked over to his wardrobe and withdrew his biggest winter coat.

'What are you doing?' said Papa.

Copia shrugged his arms into his sleeves. 'Well … we need to go into town quite imminently, don't we?'

Papa stared at him for a moment: then, in one swift movement, he threw himself across the room and into Copia's unready arms.

'You are too good for me,' he said. He leant back, his arms wound around Copia's waist. 'I'll go and get my coat and meet you by the front entrance, huh?'

It was colder, when they left, with the sun leaking its last light out from below the horizon. The ministry was a little way from the town centre but when Papa suggested taking one of the clergy's Alfa Romeos, Copia reminded him that parking would be nigh on impossible at this time of this particular day.

'You know how stressed you get in traffic,' he said. 'Besides, we have time. Just think about what you want to get him, then when we get into town we can simply grab it and head straight home.'

'Oh. I also need a hazelnut latte.'

'Fine. We grab Phil's present, then we grab coffee, _then_ we head home. OK?'

Papa sighed. 'Don't make it sound so easy. I have absolutely no idea what to get him … what did _you_ get him?'

'A limited edition ABBA print.'

'Damn, that's good,' Papa hissed. 'I wish I had thought of that.'

'It was a happy coincidence, I cannot take all of the credit,' Copia said. 'I had been in his room for one-to-one prayer guidance and he happened to mention that one of his cats had clawed up his favourite ABBA poster. I even got a chance to measure the space it had left on the wall …'

'The problem with Phil is that when he is interested in something, he is _very_ interested in it, so whatever you think of to buy him he probably owns already,' Papa sighed. 'You got lucky, Copia, you jammy little …'

He trailed off, shaking his head.

'I suppose one solution is to get him something that he can't have too much of,' said Copia.

'What, like shower gel?' Papa said, grimacing. 'Copia, I swear to Satan if you've bought me a fucking Lynx Africa gift set …'

'With an attitude like that who says I have bought you anything for Christmas?' Copia tutted. 'You will get what you are given, you will appreciate the thought behind it and you will thank me. But no. That is not what I mean. He has a lot of hobbies, doesn't he? Is there anything he does that requires … I don't know, supplies? I bought Nihil some fancy saxophone reeds.'

'Hm.' Papa pursed his lips. They were nearing the town centre now, streets lined with buildings and the night sky blurred by the glow of street lamps. 'OK, that is a good point. Maybe … he will always need cat treats?'

'Yes, but I do not think _he_ eats those.'

'Ah. No, you're right. What does he eat …?' He was talking to himself, lost in apparent serious thought now, a vision Copia didn't see very often. 'Well. Food, I suppose, like the rest of us. He does enjoy his food. And his coffee! Maybe I could get him something suitably indulgent that he would never have chosen for himself. Yes. That's it … thank you, Copia, you have done it again.'

'I don't remember doing it the first time,' Copia said, but he allowed Papa to take hold of his hand and squeeze it just the same.

The town was as bustling as to be expected on Christmas Eve, a vibrant concoction of those who were there for the atmosphere and those who, like them, were running last-minute errands, distinguishable by the furrowed brows and crumpled-up lists in their hands. There were a handful of Christmas stalls right in the centre, all in small rows with the same fake log cabin-style roofs topped with false snow. They surrounded an ice skating rink and a giant Christmas tree which spewed bubble snow from the top to flurry down on the scuttling masses below. As they approached, however, they could see that many of the stalls were starting to pack away their wares and close their shutters. To Papa's chagrin. Over the hustle and bustle, Copia could hear him mumbling obscenities to himself as he scanned the landscape for something that was still open.

'You would think,' he said, 'that they would do much of their business on Christmas Eve, wouldn't you? They have been open very late most nights, why not tonight?'

'It is their way of saying _go home and be with your families, for God's sake_ ,' said Copia.

'Yes, well, what about those of us whose families are nothing but wizened old c –' He cut himself off when a man and woman walked past with two small children, delightedly clutching at giant swirled lollipops as they toddled along. 'You know what I mean. I would rather be among commercial decadence than among my own family, any time of year.'

Copia watched him as he frowned at the people around them: many of them families. He had to bite back some sort of soppy response that he doubted Papa would appreciate in the moment.

'The churros stall is still open,' he said instead, very quickly.

'They will be stale by the time I get them to him.'

'No, for us. If you need a pick-me-up.'

Papa bit his lip. His eyes flitted between the length of high street in the distance, where they could see a few brightly lit shop frontages among many that were in darkness, and the sizzling churros being dished out beside the giant Christmas tree.

'What time is it now?' he said.

'Nearly half past three.'

He still spent a few moments struggling with himself.

'Oh, _hell,_ ' he said eventually, 'we are here for Phil, I suppose. If the churros are still here when we get back, they can be our reward.'

They darted through the swathes of people, most of whom only seemed to be there as obstacles, and up towards the shops, where the pedestrian traffic was no less heavy. One or two major shops even had small queues outside their front doors.

'See?' Copia said, pointing to a high-end fashion store. 'It could be worse. At least you aren't in that queue.'

'Believe it or not, last year I _was_ in that queue,' Papa said. 'Only on Santo Stefano. They had a huge sale. That's where I bought my sunglasses.'

'The jewel-studded ones?'

Papa nodded, with a smile. 'Worth getting up at three in the morning for, no?'

The quietest shop on the high street, it seemed, was their favourite café. Presumably it was shutting down for the night, too. With machines to clean and food to store on top of cashing up, it would make sense that they had to start the closing proceedings earlier than most places, but as they passed the wide front window they could see a couple of people still lingering near the counter. Papa nodded towards the door.

'What do you think?' he said. 'Coffee, wait for the shops to calm down a little, pile into somewhere that sells nice kitchen things and gourmet food five minutes before it closes?'

Copia had anxiety just thinking about it, but he nodded. A woman in a teal swing coat left the coffee shop, bringing with her a waft of its delicious, rich smell.

It did feel good, escaping the cold air. Papa strode over to the counter with confidence, and Copia simply stood aside. He seemed to know what he was doing.

'Hello,' Papa said, to the barista – she looked like a student. When she met Papa's eyes, he winked, and she gave him the tiniest giggle. He rested an elbow on the counter and his chin on his knuckles. 'Can I have two regular hazelnut lattes, one with almond milk, one with full fat, extra syrup and extra cream, please?'

Watching him flirt with other people always swirled arousal up in Copia, and this felt like neither the place nor the time. He turned away from the two of them and to the display behind the counter, all festive syrup and chalked blackboards – and a pile of gorgeous, classic percolators.

'Papa?' he said.

Papa apologised to the barista mid-line to turn to Copia. 'Huh?'

Copia nodded to the percolators. 'Does he have one of those?'

Papa looked up at them with a frown: Copia couldn't be sure he even knew what they were, but then he opened his mouth in an excited gasp. 'No! He doesn't. He has one of those little battery-powered whirly things you get from IKEA to froth up his milk but I think that is about it, in coffee terms.' He beamed over at Copia. 'Christmas sorted!' Then back to the barista. 'And … sorry, my dear … could I be a pain in the bum and also get one of those … coffee machine things …?'

Copia smiled to himself as the poor girl, melting under Papa's charm, had to get a little footstool in order to grab his idiot boyfriend one of the percolators.

'You,' he said, under his breath, as they exited onto the high street, 'are impossible.'

'Hm. Doesn't hurt to keep your options open. Who knows? One day you may fancy bringing a third party into the bedroom … she was cute, no?'

'Very. But she was also just trying to do her job.'

'And she was very good at it, too …' Papa shuffled the bag from the coffee shop up to his elbow so he could snake his arm around Copia's waist. 'Not as cute as you, though, _mio caro._ You've saved my ass tonight.'

Copia knew the squeeze was coming: he braced himself so that he didn't squeak and jump, slopping his latte all over himself, but he still flushed when Papa's fingers dug into his flesh. They weren't out together in public very often, and presenting like this in front of ordinary people never failed to make him squirm just a little – mostly with pleasure.

'I would do anything for your ass, Papa, you know that,' he said, under his breath. 'Thank you for the coffee, by the way. But how are you even drinking yours? It's nothing but fat and sugar.'

'The best kind of coffee!'

'No. You lose the very _essence_ of the coffee …'

The tension of the task at hand gone, they bickered playfully all the way back up the high street. Most of the stalls were indeed closed, now – the churros stall included – but neither of them particularly minded. It meant the crowds right in the centre had thinned, and they could meander without worrying about being crashed into quite so much. They could pay a bit less attention to their surroundings and a bit more to one another.

Without the hum of chit-chat, they could also hear music, piped into the town centre by a speaker concealed somewhere near the Christmas tree. Without knowing what it was, with half of the sound lost to the air, the rhythm felt off to Copia – he paused, and Papa came to a stop beside him. They listened for a moment. The Power of Love.

'Frankie Goes to Hollywood,' Papa said, as though reading Copia's mind. He nodded.

The last session of ice skating had just kicked out – people were stumbling off the ice, at the other end of the rink from the tree, and no one was replacing them from the little tent that housed the skate hire and the changing rooms in which people staggered across rubber mats on their blades. The damp path beside the tree, therefore, was almost deserted.

Papa glanced sideways at Copia, whose face was still tense with concentration trying to make the music out among fits and starts of conversation and ambient sound. It was a good look for him – such a studious man in general, he looked very much like himself when he was focused like this.

It gave Papa great pleasure to swirl him around on the spot, so that they were facing one another, before grabbing his hips and crashing them into his. Copia gasped, only just saving his coffee, but Papa steadied his arm before placing a hand on his shoulder blade and pushing their bodies closer together still with a crooked smile.

'You …' Copia said, but he realised he was only trying to be cross: he softened in Papa's arms as the suave _stronzetto_ took hold of his hand and started to steer them in a slow, swaying dance, deftly balancing his coffee at Copia's shoulder. 'You really are impossible.'

It was that thrill, again, of being treated openly like someone's lover in public. A thrill exacerbated by the atmosphere, the lingering sweet smells and the small, fluffy bubbles still landing on their shoulders and in their hair. It wasn't quite the snow Copia had wished for, back by the fire, but it was enough.

Papa's smile broadened.

'Do not pretend that you haven't always wanted a cringey boyfriend who does disgustingly romantic things like this with you.'

Copia felt a deep, tight breath release, his chest softening against Papa's. There was one last twitch to Papa's lips before he leant in for a warm, sugary kiss.

'Mmm.' He mumbled against Copia's lips before drawing away. 'I love you.'

'You are only saying that now because we are slow dancing under fake snow …'

'No. I'm saying that because I love you.'

They revolved, very slowly, for a whole turn. There may have been people, stragglers, watching them, or even just giving them a second glance. Two clergymen from that mysterious, often darkened church on the outside of the town, entwined in the snow.

Copia didn't really care.

'I love you, too,' he said. 'Very much.'


	2. Thank God It's Not Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil's present sorted, Papa and Copia return to Copia's room, where a Christmas classic is playing on TV. Turns out Papa has never seen it before, and he isn't ready for the emotional punch it packs.
> 
> Content warning for brief mentions of childhood illness and implied neglect/abuse.

It was with a new buoyancy that Papa left Copia at his own door.

'Right,' he said briskly, holding up his bag. 'I will go and wrap this, then I will meet you back in your room as soon as I can, OK?'

'What if that's not OK? What if I actually have plans? You did abandon me, after all,' said Copia. 'I might be meeting Aether later for IPAs.'

'Copia, you don't even know what an IPA _is_ ,' Papa sighed. 'Those are just letters to you. No one _meets for IPAs,_ and if you so much as sipped one you'd scrunch up your face like a kid who'd tasted a lemon for the first time.'

'I was only joking …'

'I know, but I simply could not suspend my disbelief enough to run with it. Don't worry. I'll bring the wine, I promise.'

'I have mulled wine, too. In fact I mulled it myself.'

'Ah! That's more like the Copia I know and love.' Papa kissed him fleetingly on the cheek. 'I will see you later, _mio caro._ '

'Don't be long.'

Papa winked at him before turning on his heel, giving a flourish of a wave behind him. Copia kept his eyes trained on him as he flounced through his own door, closing it with his hip.

How Copia could have accepted the idea of a quiet Christmas Eve was beyond him. He smiled to himself, staring at the closed door for a lingering few seconds before heading back to his own room.

The fire was dying down, embers glowing amongst grey charcoal like fireflies. Copia added a new log, stoked it until flames began to sputter and crackle again, then shed his coat, tugging the wrinkles out of his cassock. His mulled wine, proudly spiced earlier in the day, was placed on the hearth to warm in its huge pan. The tang permeated the air in minutes, and Copia settled down, sinking into the sofa with relief. The older he got, the more stressful he found it being near shops, somehow. He turned on his TV and it landed on some channel that was already broadcasting an old Christmas film, well into its third act. The part where things all turn out fine. Somehow, Copia didn't feel as though he'd missed out by not seeing the problems that had led to this heartwarming climax.

When Papa returned, after much longer than Copia had expected, it became apparent that he had taken some time to freshen himself up. His hair, now in its signature, glossy slicked-back style, was adorned with a headband that featured a tiny Christmas parcel, wrapped in silver and purple glittery paper. He gave Copia a cheeky smile when he noticed him eyeing it as he sidled into the room, leaving a gingery sort of scent in his wake. He always liked to match his aftershave to the season. And his arms were full: he'd balanced gifts and bottles and chocolates across them as he held them out in front of him, a tray in his hands piled with freshly baked bread rolls and – Copia couldn't resist a smile – the fuck-off camembert. Baked and leaking, the odour strong and warm even as it mixed in with that of the fire and the mulled wine.

'You will be the death of me,' Copia said, as Papa awkwardly began to shuffle his wares onto Copia's coffee table without dropping anything.

'Because I am so devastatingly handsome, considerate and selfless in bed?'

'Because I am lactose intolerant, you … _rompicoglioni_. You know I won't be able to resist and you know how sick it will make me.'

'Ah. You think I have not thought of this?'

There was a gleam in Papa's eyes as he started rummaging through the pile on the coffee table. For a moment, he didn't seem to be able to find what he was looking for, and a line of frustration appeared on his forehead: another Christmas Eve plan ruined, perhaps? But then he brightened when he laid his hand on a small green bottle. He held it up to shake it at Copia, and it rattled.

'Lactase,' he said. 'Pop a couple of these before we tuck in and you shouldn't suffer the way you usually do, _s_ _ì_ _?_ '

Copia took the bottle off him to inspect the label. 'Lactase enzymes? What made you think of this?'

'Just the fact that you love cheese even though it makes you shit through the eye of a needle. I wanted you to eat without worrying, so I did a little digging.'

Copia felt an uncomfortable heat in his cheeks at Papa's crudeness, but he couldn't deny it. Unfortunately. 'Thank you. This is … very considerate of you, Papa.'

'Yes, I did try to tell you I was considerate,' he said: but he was smiling shyly. 'I mean, if it doesn't work, I will read you stories through the bathroom door like last time, but …'

Copia just leant in to kiss him before he said anything else repugnant.

'The wine is warm,' he said, when they broke apart. 'Do you want some now?'

'Please. It smells incredible.'

'As does the camembert. I have rarely been so excited to eat anything in my life.'

They assembled everything on the floor in front of the TV out of a sort of novelty: rarely did they eat in their rooms like this at all, and even more rarely did they eat sitting anywhere other than a table. The film had reached its final scenes, families singing together in front of an obscene amount of lights.

'I hope you don't mind me sleeping on your floor tonight,' Papa said, after he had torn off his first chunk of bread to dip into the melting cheese. 'I will certainly not be getting up in a hurry. In fact I doubt I will be able to move from this exact position until sometime on Santo Stefano.'

'On the first of January I am waking you up at five o' clock for yoga, then,' said Copia. 'New Year, new you.'

'You said, not two hours ago, that I was _me_ and you wouldn't have me any other way.'

He was repeating this with irritation, through a very full mouth, yet still Copia felt it just as passionately as he had done when he'd said it himself before they had left for town.

'Sweetheart, I would love every inch of you whether you could tie yourself into a pretzel or you snapped into two pieces when you got up in the morning,' he said. 'But being strong and flexible has many practical benefits. That was all I meant.'

'Oh, I know of its practical benefits,' Papa said. He'd swallowed his mouthful, so he was able to give Copia the exact coy smile he wanted. 'I just don't know that I am a yoga person.'

'You are the most "yoga person" I have ever met. I honestly do not know why you haven't already tried it.'

'It is too late in the day now. I will start when I retire. Let you get all the glory from showing off those poses when you get your chance on the stage …'

Copia watched Papa as he dived down for more cheese. This confidence in the idea that Copia would be the next to take over as Ghost's frontman never failed to jar him – much as it filled him with affection. At least someone had faith in his (virtually non-existent, in his opinion) abilities.

'Well. We shall see.' He cleared his throat. 'Anyway. This camembert. _Bellissimo, mio caro._ I am very pleased that you had this idea.'

Papa smiled up at him. 'So am I.'

They polished off the whole lot, sipping at the wine throughout even as the festive film changed to a short news bulletin that told of grim events still unfolding in the outside world. Copia knew there were always grim events unfolding in the outside world, of course: but tonight, for once, he didn't want to care about them. Papa was chatting, as per, through his munching, and he gave him all of his attention instead. Copia loved that this version of Papa was all his. Outside, in the ministry, he had to maintain a certain level of decorum, looking after the reputation associated with his title at all times. If he were seen making crude jokes with liquid camembert smudging his skull paint, he would lose much of his credibility …

Not here. Copia, sometimes, wondered whether there was anything Papa could do that would make him love him less. He very much doubted it.

The mulled wine slipped down very well, and the bottle of red Papa had brought was popped open around the same time as the last of the cheese vanished. The pair of them retired to the sofa, Copia sitting longways against a pileup of red scatter cushions, Papa lying back against him, nestled between his legs. They took the box of chocolates up with them, taking it in turns to dip in. The news had reached its last story, the novelty one to take the edge off the miserable main headlines. They chuckled at the Santa's grotto the family in question had made of their house, but when the newsreader explained that they displayed so many lights and decorations in order to entertain their young daughter, who was living with a life-altering condition, they quietened.

'You OK, _mio caro_?' Papa said, under his breath.

Copia pulled him closer. ' _S_ _ì_.'

The news made way for another film, the opening shot showing some sort of old-fashioned attic room into which David Bowie walked. Thin, blonde and wearing a white patterned jumper. Copia stiffened.

'Oh my Satan,' he said. 'I've not seen this in forever …'

'I don't think I have _ever_ seen this. Is this one of his music videos?'

'No. No, it's The Snowman?'

Papa twisted his head to stare at Copia. 'You say that as though I ought to know what you are talking about.'

'What … you have never seen The Snowman? You must have been in your twenties when it came out, surely you remember it?'

Copia's surprise was tinged with disappointment, which irritated Papa: he folded his arms, taking care to keep his wine glass upright, and turned his face away from Copia's. 'No. I don't. Maybe your twenties were all sunshine and lollipops, but I hardly had the time or the inclination to sit around watching movies, huh?'

He exhaled hard through his nose before taking quite a long drink of wine, and Copia's entire body softened. He'd been stupid. Thoughtless, even, to pry into Papa's youth like that. He only really had anything like a good idea of his life story from the age of about thirty-five, and a vague idea that much of the rest of it had been tainted by the expectations of his particularly challenging father. A father who happened to be their boss.

'I'm sorry,' he said.

'No … no, I'm sorry,' said Papa. 'I didn't mean to snap. You were only asking.'

They fell silent again as Bowie was replaced by choppy, animated snow, accompanied by the film's title and slow piano music.

'This is a kids' film?' Papa sighed. 'I was hoping we might be settling in for something a little more … _adult._ ' He accompanied the last word with a wiggle of his ass, and Copia felt a small tingle between his legs even as he smiled.

'It's barely six in the evening.'

'It's also Christmas Eve. Surely anything goes?'

'Just give it a chance? It is only short.'

'All right. For you. Let's see what I am apparently missing out on.'

He was cynical at first. Copia had to shush him several times in the first minute or so. ( _Why is no one speaking? What does David Bowie have to do with any of this? Haha … maybe they should have called it The Starman. Huh? Don't you get it, Copia? Like the song?_ ) But once he realised the story was to be told only in pictures and music, he seemed to find the medium quite charming.

And by the time James and the Snowman were rushing down the garden, Copia felt him gasp.

'Oh … they are going to fly? They are, aren't they?'

'Just … bloody … _watch_.'

Apart from expressing recognition when Walking in the Air began to play, he was silent for the whole rest of the film. He didn't even touch his wine, nor did he respond with any sound or movement when Copia slipped a hand down to his thigh for a brief squeeze. Just to check his attention levels.

They were fixed fully on the film. Copia's heart was full to bursting, and he knew it had nothing to do with the sheer amount of red wine inside him.

Then, they reached the inevitable. When James woke up after the night's adventures, ready to spend more time with his magical creation, Papa suddenly seized Copia's resting hand.

' _Cazzo …_ no …' he said. 'I bet he melted. Didn't he?'

'Just _watch_.'

'I _am_ watching. Did he melt, Copia? Oh, please tell me he didn't.' He turned to bury his face in Copia's shoulder. 'I will not watch any more if he did.'

'You _are_ watching or you _aren't_. Which is it?'

He did turn back to the screen, but he whined the whole time, and he shrank just a little further into Copia's chest. And when James discovered his small pile of snow, Copia heard the faintest, damp swallowing sounds in Papa's throat.

'Are you … Papa, are you choking up?'

Papa's breathing was too measured, like he had to work very hard to control it. ' _No._ Fuck,' he said, his voice rather higher in pitch than usual.

'You are, aren't you?' Copia squeezed him around the waist. 'I told you we should watch it!'

'If I'd known … I wouldn't've …' He was sniffing heavily now, raising a hand to wipe his eyes. 'Fuck you, Copia. It's Christmas, I'm supposed to be happy. Fucking … dead snowmen …'

'I genuinely did not expect a short children's film to have this effect on the ice-cold Papa Emeritus the Third,' said Copia. 'In fact … come to think of it I don't think I have ever seen you cry.'

'Will you _please_ stop making a big deal out of it?' Papa said. His voice was completely level now – and extremely vexed. Copia opened his mouth to make an excuse for himself, but after a second's pause he realised that there was nothing he could say on the matter that _wouldn't_ sound like he was continuing to make a big deal out of it. Papa was very obviously mortified, despite having no reason to be whatsoever, and this matter seemed like it might be best dealt with by a counsellor or therapist. A professional, at least. Certainly not him, wine-tipsy and cheese-bloated, on the sofa.

'I'm sorry,' he whispered. He stroked Papa's arm, moving down to take hold of his hand, then leant in to plant a soft kiss on his cheek. 'But I need you to know that I will never think less of you for expressing normal human emotions, Papa. _Never._ '

Papa sighed. He shuffled backwards, letting his body fall heavy again.

'Rationally, I know that,' he said. 'But when most of the other people in your life historically _do_ view that sort of thing as a weakness … it is just hard to break the habit of a lifetime. That's all.'

Copia exhaled hard. He said nothing. He had no idea what he _could_ say, really. He just pressed his lips to Papa's hair, then turned his head towards the TV, where the announcer was giving a brief description of the next short film. It just happened to be the sequel to the one they had just watched. His heart in his throat, he waited to see if Papa had noticed. When he said nothing, he decided to venture into their silence instead.

'We can – erm.' He shifted his position slightly, but made a point of pushing his hips upwards a couple of times as he did so, gently grinding against Papa's behind. The best way to distract him, in almost any situation. 'We can do something else, if you like –?'

'No!' Papa said. 'This one has a _dog_ in it, Copia! A dog made of snow!'

Excited though he was, he did go very, very quiet at the beginning, when the family buried their beloved pet dog. Again, Copia said nothing, but the two of them clutched unwaveringly at one another's hands until the tone of the film brightened. Copia was paying much less attention to this film. Not only because it didn't hold the same nostalgia to him as the original - he was also very aware of Papa's body, now. The way it loosened, slowly, over the course of the film. The way it shivered with pleasure at the fun bits, or melted to fluid at the dreamy flight sequences. Funny, how bodies gave so much away. He was getting to know Papa's so well he could almost use it to read his mind.

'Well,' Papa said, when the end credits rolled, 'I am glad that one finished on a lighter note, I won't lie to you.'

'It is only because Raymond Briggs did not oversee it to give it a suitably miserable ending. If you really want your heart tearing out of your body, might I suggest reading – or watching, actually, David Bowie did sing something for this one – When the Wind Blows?'

'There is barely enough heart left in me to rip out.' Papa put his hands on Copia's thighs to help himself scrabble upright and turn to face him. 'And let's not go there tonight, Copia. I put a lot of effort into making sure we could spend tonight at ease, not stressed out.'

'At ease? Hm. And what does Papa's idea of a night spent at ease look like, I wonder?'

 _Sly, Copia,_ he thought to himself. But Papa was already smiling in appreciation. Kneeling before him, his parcel headband glinting in the firelight, Copia had to fight not to seize him by his suit jacket and roughly pull him in for hot, desperate kisses. Tonight was not that sort of night. Not yet, at any rate. Still shaken by Papa's slight outburst, he knew he had to let him control where things went next.

Papa took his time. He seemed to be observing Copia the way Copia was observing him, perhaps mesmerised by the surreal effect the flickering light was casting upon his face. Then, with uncharacteristic patience, he moved in. Copia could hear his every breath as he closed his eyes in anticipation. Their lips touched, then parted, rich with the lingering wine. Papa slid a hand into Copia's hair and Copia just about remembered not to disturb Papa's headband, instead slipping one hand behind his neck as they kissed deeply. It felt as though Papa had intent, until he gently pulled away.

'I can't wait any longer,' he said. 'I need to give you one of your presents.'

He dived to the coffee table, and Copia rolled his eyes, caught between amusement and irritation as Papa flipped through the wrapped gifts. 'It isn't Christmas Day yet.'

'Yes, but I'm too excited. There is one gift I must – I don't know? – explain to you, I suppose. I would like you to see that one as soon as possible.' He retrieved what looked like a money wallet, and handed it to Copia, kneeling back up in front of him. 'You have my permission to open this one early, _mio caro._ Go on.'

Copia did frown, but it took him all of two seconds to soften, and thumb at the folded envelope until it opened. 'All right …'

'See, it is not a _present_ as such, in that I did not actually purchase this for you,' Papa said, his words tumbling out a mile a minute. 'But … well, I negotiated with Imperator and … just look!'

They were plane tickets. To the USA and back, the flights some two weeks apart next autumn.

'When we go to America next year, you've been granted … I don't know what I would call it, exactly,' Papa said. 'A secondment, of sorts? If a very short one. I spoke to her and bought her quite a lot of single malt whiskey and spoke to her some more, and somehow, she did seem to think it would be a good idea for you to see how we manage things on the road, so …' He shrugged, as though he had more to say but had realised it would be unnecessary. Copia was staring down at the tickets with round eyes, lips slightly parted, and that was all Papa needed to see. 'So _s_ _ì_ _._ You are coming with me, _mio caro_.'

Copia was breathing very slowly as he read the details on the tickets as though trying to prove them to be forgeries. 'I … I don't know what to say.'

'Say nothing. I don't mind. It is a lot to process.'

He reached out to squeeze Copia's free hand, and the two men locked eyes. Papa smiled.

'You are the misty-eyed one now, no? This is the right way around.'

Copia nodded, with a sniff, and Papa squeezed his hand again.

'See,' he breathed, 'I love this about you. I wish I were able to express such emotion without restraint. The way you do.'

Copia flicked his gaze downwards as heat rose in his cheeks. 'I am just touched, Papa, that is all. This is incredible. I can't believe you persuaded Imperator to agree to this.'

'Yes … well. The things we do for love, huh?'

Brushing at his eyes, Copia tucked the tickets away. 'I will put them somewhere safe. And … I suppose … it is only fair that you get to open one of yours early, too, isn't it? Not that I would have allowed it in any other circumstances, but since you have impressed me so much …'

Papa stayed where he was, but kept his eyes on Copia as he stood up, stretched, and walked across his room to retrieve a small parcel from inside one of his desk drawers.

'It is related, I suppose, to yours,' he said, handing it to Papa and sitting back down slightly closer to him than he had been. 'More sentimental? I don't know. I might need to explain mine, too.'

Papa had it open within seconds, a green jewellery box that housed a silver St Christopher.

'Ah!' He held it up on its chain, letting it twirl before his eyes. 'The patron saint of travellers … no explanation necessary, Copia, other than how you are going to explain to the Dark Lord that you would have me wearing a Christian saint around my neck?' He winked. 'No, I understand completely. Protection for when I am on tour. I love it. I may also need it, the way things are going with daddy dearest.'

'Oh, fuck him.'

Copia caught himself saying it before he had considered whether he ought to: he swallowed hard before continuing. ' _I_ am your family, Papa, not him.'

It was what he had briefly flirted with saying earlier, when Papa had huffed that he did not particularly enjoy spending Christmas with his own family, and he had been worried that Papa would scoff – but he didn't. In fact, he faced Copia with fierce, blazing eyes.

'You are not wrong,' he said, firmly. 'And I must say … it is rather wonderful to have a family, however small, that I love so dearly.'

Oh … hell. Wine, firelight, Papa being sentimental: it was too much. Copia reached out to trace his fingertips down Papa's chest.

'Papa?' he said, his voice barely leaving his throat.

Papa closed his eyes, exhaling hard. 'Hmm?'

'Would you … cork that wine and put it back in the fridge for me, _mio caro_?'

Papa caught Copia's hand. He raised it to his lips to kiss it. 'Only if you promise me you will still be here when I get back?' he murmured.

'Of course. Ready and willing.'

Papa slicked the tip of his tongue over his top lip. 'I will be back before you can say _silent night_ ,' he said. 'Not that we will be having one of those, huh?'

It was all Copia could do not to get started without him, so to speak.

He did remove the cassock. That left something for Papa to unwrap, at least, while hinting at the outline of his body. Particularly the parts that were beginning to anticipate the turn the evening was about to take.

He was, to his slight shame, running his hand lightly over his still-clothed semi when his door burst open again. The Papa who barrelled into his room did not look remotely interested in partaking in anything sexual whatsoever: once again, his face was screwed up, and he was holding a parcel. This time, though, it was big enough that he had to use both hands.

'Phil,' he snarled. ' _Fucking Phil_ …'

Copia snatched his hand away from his crotch, placing both palms firmly on the cushions either side of him. 'What about Phil? What has he done now?'

Papa kicked the door shut behind him. 'You will never guess what I have just found in the fridge.'

He thrust the package at Copia. It was nothing more than a large cardboard box, printed with a postage label, Papa's name and the ministry's address. It was also radiating cold, no doubt from being kept in the fridge, but that didn't give him much of a clue. 'I have no idea? Maybe your white eye can see through cardboard, Papa, but mine hasn't developed that ability yet.'

' _Per l'amor del cielo_ …' Papa dug his thumbnail into the tape holding the box together and scored along it so that one of the top flaps sprung free. He knelt down to drop the box on the floor and dig through it, tossing aside what seemed to be copious amounts of packing peanuts, until he withdrew something in triumph. A wedge of blue-veined cheese.

'Aha,' he said. 'See? I ordered this _weeks_ ago and chose the latest possible delivery slot so that I could keep the cheese fresh. I knew I had everything prepared …' He plunged back into the box to withdraw exquisite block of cheese after exquisite block of cheese. 'I _was_ ready after all. I just … forgot.'

It took Copia a moment to realise what Papa was trying to say: when he did, he let out an involuntary snort.

'You already bought Phil … a cheese hamper?'

'And someone must have taken the delivery and put it in the fridge straight away while we were out!' He let his arms fall to his sides and gazed up at Copia, somewhere between defeated and proud. 'Well. The coffee thingy is his birthday present ready for March, I suppose.'

'Percolator,' Copia said. 'As long as you don't forget you bought it.'

'You witnessed me purchase that. I will have you to remind me this time.'

They stared down at the cheese. It was Papa who started laughing first. Copia had been trying to hold off, but this felt like permission, and soon the two of them were in absolute fits that waned and restarted every time they caught one another's eyes.

'We were … we were going to do something, weren't we?' Papa said, when he could catch his breath again. 'Oh, _cazzo,_ I'm sorry. I promise I was in the mood when I left you, now I am just …' He clutched his chest. 'Give me ten minutes? I am not as young as I used to be. I never imagined I would need to _rest_ after a laughing fit.'

'Well. Since you really are ready for Christmas, now, there is no rush,' Copia said. He stretched his hand down to Papa, who took hold of it. 'How about we go and rest in my bedroom?'

He pulled Papa to his feet. He stepped forward, winding both arms around Copia's waist and burying his face in his neck. Copia leant back to allow him the room, sighing when Papa started trailing kisses from his jaw to his collarbone.

'Mmm. Being on top of things does feel good,' he said. 'I think I might be organised more often.'

'I would not object, if it meant I had the chance of more evenings alone with you at the busiest time of year …'

He slipped both hands down to Papa's ass, pulling him closer. Papa smirked against his neck.

'Of course, my love,' he said. ' _T_ _here is only you ... and nothing else to do_.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whatever holiday you celebrate, or don't, at this time of year, I hope you're keeping safe and well! Much love xxx
> 
> Thank God It's Not Christmas, by the way, is a great song by one of my favourite weird bands, Sparks. Papa's suggestive last line comes from there, too. I think I've sort of cemented song-type stories as my brand on here, haven't I?
> 
> And please only do watch When the Wind Blows if you want to not sleep for several nights. It's amazing but genuinely the most disturbing film I've ever seen.


End file.
